Poemsby William Blake

The Sick Rose

The Angel

The Fly

 
 Little Fly,
 Thy summer's play
 My thoughtless hand
 Has brushed away.

 
 Am not I
 A fly like thee?
 Or art not thou
 A man like me?

 
 For I dance
 And drink, and sing,
 Till some blind hand
 Shall brush my wing.

 
 If thought is life
 And strength and breath
 And the want 
 Of thought is death;

 
 Then am I
 A happy fly,
 If I live,
 Or if I die.

Contents

The Sick Rose

The Angel